whispered, “Take him instead. Take my father, whom I love, instead of Mamma!”
And it seemed to him that Death whispered back:
But if
you love your father as much as your mother, why should I take him
when it’s her I want?
Johan considered this. “Because he’s lived longer. It’s . . . fairer that way.”
Everything was quiet for a moment. Johan stared at the ceiling.
Then he heard the voice again.
Are you sure it isn’t because
you don’t really care about your father, Johan? Are you sure it isn’t
because you think your father is a smelly, spineless little man who
might as well die now? Are you sure it isn’t because you adore your
mother and you’d be lost without her? Is it not the case, my dear
boy, that you are asking me to do you a favor?
“No,” Johan replied, clasping his hands. “I love them both. Pappa’s a good man; he means well. It just seems fairer for you to take him first. He . . . he . . . he’s ten years older than she is.”
Johan lifted his face to the bathroom mirror. He looked tired. He
was
tired. There was no escape from this fatigue. He could not sleep, and he was tired; he slept, and he was still tired. It made no difference. He remembered the little girl at the hospital who thought he was as old as her ancient grandpa. This was the face she had seen. Poor child!
The day after thirteen-year-old Johan spoke with Death, his mother got out of bed for a while with a hint of roses in her cheeks. Within a week she was up and about all day, and after three weeks she was well enough to go back to work.
Johan had all but forgotten Death’s favor when, more than a year later, he overheard his mother and father talking in the living room. He knew his father had been to see the doctor, but he hadn’t given it much thought. Johan heard his father’s anxious whispers and his mother’s calm, soothing voice. “Everything will be fine. Things always work out fine.” Then he heard his father burst into tears, and the words
I’m scared!
Johan sat up in bed. His father, this well-meaning, friendless little man who had always been good to Johan, was weeping in the living room.
Johan hurriedly clasped his hands. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he whispered, tears spilling down his face.
He lay down again and shut his eyes. He could still hear the voices in the living room and his father’s quiet sobs.
Johan clasped his hands again. “Hey, there!” he whispered in the darkness. “Hey, you!”
No reply.
“I know you can hear me, and I just wanted to say that I’m grateful to you for doing as I asked, but that this is no small sacrifice. I want you to know that. My father’s a good man. It’s not that I don’t care about him. You said I didn’t care, but I do.”
Johan blew on the mirror. He saw his father’s face, the last glimpse of his father’s stricken face before his mother closed the door and the howling began.
He didn’t want to end up like that. He wanted to decide for himself when it was time, and he didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, least of all to Mai, any more than he already was. Mai was seventeen years younger, only fifty-three. And slim, stately, almost beautiful. He tried to summon up Mai’s face the way he had his father’s, but there was only mist. He could hear her out in the kitchen, humming and clattering dishes and cutlery. It was impossible to picture a face one knew so well. When he thought about it, he realized he seldom saw her face in his dreams. He could envision his mother’s face whenever he liked, and his father’s as he lay dying, before the blue door was closed, and Alice’s face, twisted with scolding, but not Mai’s face. If he shut his eyes and worked his way inside to that part of him that continued to burn, he could find the rapture Mai’s face awakened in him, not only when they first fell in love but to this day. It was like discovering a clearing in the forest where wild strawberries grew.
Very few who knew
And it seemed to him that Death whispered back:
But if
you love your father as much as your mother, why should I take him
when it’s her I want?
Johan considered this. “Because he’s lived longer. It’s . . . fairer that way.”
Everything was quiet for a moment. Johan stared at the ceiling.
Then he heard the voice again.
Are you sure it isn’t because
you don’t really care about your father, Johan? Are you sure it isn’t
because you think your father is a smelly, spineless little man who
might as well die now? Are you sure it isn’t because you adore your
mother and you’d be lost without her? Is it not the case, my dear
boy, that you are asking me to do you a favor?
“No,” Johan replied, clasping his hands. “I love them both. Pappa’s a good man; he means well. It just seems fairer for you to take him first. He . . . he . . . he’s ten years older than she is.”
Johan lifted his face to the bathroom mirror. He looked tired. He
was
tired. There was no escape from this fatigue. He could not sleep, and he was tired; he slept, and he was still tired. It made no difference. He remembered the little girl at the hospital who thought he was as old as her ancient grandpa. This was the face she had seen. Poor child!
The day after thirteen-year-old Johan spoke with Death, his mother got out of bed for a while with a hint of roses in her cheeks. Within a week she was up and about all day, and after three weeks she was well enough to go back to work.
Johan had all but forgotten Death’s favor when, more than a year later, he overheard his mother and father talking in the living room. He knew his father had been to see the doctor, but he hadn’t given it much thought. Johan heard his father’s anxious whispers and his mother’s calm, soothing voice. “Everything will be fine. Things always work out fine.” Then he heard his father burst into tears, and the words
I’m scared!
Johan sat up in bed. His father, this well-meaning, friendless little man who had always been good to Johan, was weeping in the living room.
Johan hurriedly clasped his hands. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he whispered, tears spilling down his face.
He lay down again and shut his eyes. He could still hear the voices in the living room and his father’s quiet sobs.
Johan clasped his hands again. “Hey, there!” he whispered in the darkness. “Hey, you!”
No reply.
“I know you can hear me, and I just wanted to say that I’m grateful to you for doing as I asked, but that this is no small sacrifice. I want you to know that. My father’s a good man. It’s not that I don’t care about him. You said I didn’t care, but I do.”
Johan blew on the mirror. He saw his father’s face, the last glimpse of his father’s stricken face before his mother closed the door and the howling began.
He didn’t want to end up like that. He wanted to decide for himself when it was time, and he didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, least of all to Mai, any more than he already was. Mai was seventeen years younger, only fifty-three. And slim, stately, almost beautiful. He tried to summon up Mai’s face the way he had his father’s, but there was only mist. He could hear her out in the kitchen, humming and clattering dishes and cutlery. It was impossible to picture a face one knew so well. When he thought about it, he realized he seldom saw her face in his dreams. He could envision his mother’s face whenever he liked, and his father’s as he lay dying, before the blue door was closed, and Alice’s face, twisted with scolding, but not Mai’s face. If he shut his eyes and worked his way inside to that part of him that continued to burn, he could find the rapture Mai’s face awakened in him, not only when they first fell in love but to this day. It was like discovering a clearing in the forest where wild strawberries grew.
Very few who knew
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